


Here There Be Dragons

by pt_tucker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Big Brother Mycroft, Blackmail, Blackmail sex, Brief Mentionings of Non-Consensual Body Modification, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft To The Rescue, Mycroft doesn't let anyone hurt his baby brother, Protective Mycroft, Rough Sex, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Sherlock Trying to Be a Good Brother, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1771831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pt_tucker/pseuds/pt_tucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His little brother had played with fire, and, as usual, it was up to Mycroft to provide the extinguisher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here There Be Dragons

**Author's Note:**

> My attempt at combining two Magcroft prompts. (It's official, I'm calling it that.)  
> http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=129614598#t129614598  
> http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=129688070#t129688070
> 
> Doesn't fill either 100% since I tried to incorporate elements of both to (hopefully) make two separate prompters happy.
> 
> Not beta'd or Britpicked. If anyone would like to volunteer, I'd love you forever. :)

_“Perhaps there was something in the punch.”  
“Clearly. Go and have some more.”_

Mycroft resisted the urge to sigh as he walked back into the house. He had no idea as to how Sherlock maintained the profession of “Consulting Detective” if he was able to have everything explained to him in such an obvious manner and yet still managed to miss the entire point of the conversation.

Mycroft was, and always would be, the smart one.

Mycroft gave the young man, Mr. “Bill” Wiggins, the same polite head tilt that he gave all people whom he neither cared for nor disliked. It was a vaguely bored gesture that only served to acknowledge that Mycroft knew the other individual existed. People were so particular about being acknowledged. As if a man of his talents wouldn’t notice the presence of an entire person when he noticed the dot of mud on their trousers alerting him to the fact that they’d recently returned from hiking.

Mycroft was doubly capable of noticing when his brother kept glancing at him out of the corner of his eye every time he reached for his glass of punch. The last time Sherlock had paid him that much attention had been over twenty years ago, when he’d ended up sprawled out on the floor of a tree house in a foreign country with no recollection of the past three days. They’d had _words_ after that incident.

He’d rushed out of the room earlier, as soon as he’d been able to make his excuses, and had purged whatever Sherlock had slipped him from his system, in addition to injecting himself with a small dosage of a chemical solution provided by MI6 just for such occasions. He’d then texted Anthea to inform her of what exactly he suspected Sherlock had done, knowing she would understand what he would then be required to do in turn. His little brother had played with fire, and, as usual, it was up to Mycroft to provide the extinguisher. 

Mycroft sat down at the table across from his mother as he returned from his smoke break and proceeded to make idle small talk. He paid careful attention to her; he needed to know the exact moment in which she started to feel the effects of Sherlock’s medication. Ah, there. Mycroft allowed his head to rest upon the table just as his mother slumped down into her chair. Not moments later, he heard Sherlock come bursting through the kitchen door and race towards where he knew John to be. Unfortunately for his brother, that’s about when his plans started to fall apart.

“Your instructions were to prevent John from consuming any of the punch!” Sherlock raged as he came bursting back into the kitchen.

“He didn’t. I watched him like a hawk just like you said to and all he had was some of your brother’s scotch.”

“Scotch? What scotch? Mycroft has been drinking the _drugged punch_!”

“I don’t know. He brought it outta the fridge earlier when you was in the bathroom. Said the doctor might like something a little stronger, what with all that’s been going on.”

There was silence and Mycroft could practically hear the pieces clicking into place inside Sherlock’s mind. 

“Did he pour this drink himself?”

Deciding enough time had passed, Mycroft lifted his face up from its undignified position of being smashed against his hand. He gave his brother a smug grin.

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened just as he began to sway. Mycroft was on his feet in an instant. His brother was barely out of hospital. It wouldn’t do for him to fall back and smack his head against the kitchen tiles. Mummy would be dreadfully upset.

As he grabbed hold of Sherlock’s arm, the other man simultaneously attempted to push him away and cling onto him for balance. It was an interesting display of warring desires. Mycroft slipped an arm around his upper back and slowly lowered him down onto the floor as his brother started to become heavier and heavier, unable to support his own weight as his body went into hibernation. 

“Cigarette,” Sherlock mumbled just as his eyes fluttered shut. 

Yes, Sherlock really should learn to carry his own.

He glanced up at Sherlock’s…associate. Mr. Wiggins looked rather nonchalant even as he asked, “Does this mean I’m never gonna be seen again? For being an accomplice, I mean? I’d like to call my mum if so.” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes, exasperated.

“It appears my brother has been telling tales again. I assure you, I hold only a minor position in the British government.”

“Right,” Wiggins responded, looking about as believing of his statement as John had the first time he’d heard that line, “And you just carry around drugged cigarettes and sleeping powder for kicks?”

Mycroft was vaguely impressed, even as he scowled. Sherlock had not been exaggerating when he’d told him about the man’s above-average deduction skills.

Ignoring his question, Mycroft continued, “My position does, however, allow me a modicum of freedom in regards to the classification of national threats, which you will be deemed if any harm should come to any of the individuals in this household.”

“Particularly that one?” Wiggins interrupted, nodding towards Sherlock, completely ignoring his warning. 

Where did his brother _find_ these people?

Not allowing his annoyance to show, Mycroft smiled tightly, “Yes. Particularly this one. We’ve reached an understanding, I hope?”

Wiggins shrugged, “I was supposed to watch over some drugged people anyway; I suppose it doesn’t matter which ones. I’ll monitor their recovery for you. Make sure whatever you gave him doesn’t affect whatever’s already in him.”

“It won’t,” Mycroft snapped. He wasn’t an _idiot._

“Right,” Wiggins said again. 

Mycroft had no choice but to accept that his brother had chosen a trustworthy caretaker as he heard the approaching helicopter, just as he’d predicted he would. Mycroft _had_ thoroughly investigated the man standing before him as soon as Sherlock had had him summoned to his bedside in the hospital months prior, but Mycroft was of the opinion that one could never be too suspicious of those that took an interest in his brother. He just had to hope that the twinge of worry he felt was the usual one whenever Sherlock encountered something new. 

Quickly smoothing out is suit, Mycroft headed towards the door. He paused next to the umbrella stand, contemplating his choices even though he already knew which he was going to pick. It gave him a moment to say goodbye, silently; he was ever mindful of Sherlock’s drug addict friend in the room. If something should go wrong…he glanced back at his brother before turning around and walking resolutely through the door.

_Sentiment._ Such an insidious thing.

The men in the helicopter glanced at each other before one of them, undoubtedly the leader of the group, shook his head at Mycroft as he approached. 

“We were told to expect Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.”

Mycroft smiled, “Dr. Watson is indisposed at the moment, I’m afraid. I am, however, Mr. Holmes.”

They glanced at each other again and Mycroft resisted the urge to sigh. Magnussen could benefit from more decisive help.

“Call your employer if you must, but I can assure you that he will not mind the switch.”

Mycroft had been attempting to get someone into Magnussen's impenetrable fortress for nearly as long as he'd known of its existence, and Magnussen had turned around and sent a helicopter for his brother. It could mean only one thing. Sherlock hadn’t known it, but he’d arranged a meeting solely so Magnussen could have the pleasure of enjoying his victory in style. Perhaps while lounging about and sipping wine. Mycroft would be a more than suitable substitute for his brother.

One of the men did just as Mycroft said and he was soon up in the air as Magnussen agreed. He pulled out his phone and sent a quick command to Anthea, before turning it off and placing it back into his pocket. He wouldn’t be needing it.

They landed outside an elegant house with a lovely view that belied the vileness inside. Mycroft closed his eyes, allowing himself a brief moment of respite before the battle was set to begin. After a moment, he opened them with renewed determination.

_For Sherlock._

Stepping out of the aircraft, he was met by Magnussen himself. The man smiled like he’d not only eaten the canary, but the parrot and cockatoo as well. Mycroft felt the inescapable desire to punch him in the face, bodyguards be damned, but refrained. 

“Hello, Mycroft. I can call you Mycroft, can’t I?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to respond and Magnussen continued speaking. 

“Of course I can.” The grin still hadn’t left the other’s face. 

“Of course,” Mycroft repeated, forcing his lips into a responding smile, albeit a weak one. 

“Oh, where are my manners? Do come in,” Magnussen said, holding his arm out towards Appledore. 

Mycroft nodded and started towards the building. He’d not taken two steps before there was a possessive hand gripping his arm, just above the elbow. He stopped to look at the man attached to the offending appendage. 

“Problem?” Magnussen asked. He rubbed his thumb against Mycroft’s arm. On a normal day, Mycroft would have scoffed at the over-the-top display of domination and mocked the man behind it. Today was not a normal day.

“No,” he lied.

Magnussen led him through the doors, waving off the bodyguards as he went. Mycroft felt vaguely insulted at the insinuation that he was no threat, even if it perfectly suited his needs. He'd been prepared to make a case for their removal from the room; their presence would have meant complications.

“Please, sit down,” Magnussen said, indicating towards the sofa.

“I’d rather stand.”

“And I’d rather you sit.”

Mycroft sat down. 

He crossed his legs and intertwined his fingers together and placed them on his lap. His umbrella sat just to the right of him. At the very least, he could continue to present a dignified front. He glanced up at Magnussen’s knowing look. At least until his dignity was taken from him as well.

“Shall we get down to business?” Mycroft asked.

Magnussen chuckled.

“You’re trying very hard, aren’t you?”

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Trying to maintain control of the situation,” Magnussen continued, slowly walking towards him. Mycroft’s shoulders tensed as he drew closer. “Even though we both know you lost control the instant you made the decision to walk out of your parents’ home.”

Mycroft turned his face away as the other man leaned in close. Magnussen’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, “I am in control now, _Mycroft._ ”

Mycroft swallowed and clenched his jaw so hard he feared it might crack.

“One might even claim I own you now. Hmm, such a lovely thought. I think I’d like to hear it from your lips. Go on. Say it for me.”

“You…own me,” Mycroft replied, his voice barely audible. It left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Louder.”

“You own me,” he repeated with more force.

“Really now, if that’s the best you can do, perhaps I should send you on your way and continue on with meeting baby brother instead. I'm certain he'll show up eventually.”

“YOU OWN ME!” 

“Good boy.” 

Magnussen gave him a soft peck on the lips and pulled back. Mycroft resisted the urge to wipe his mouth. Instead, his hands were the color of fresh snow as he clenched them together hard enough to imagine he might break bone. He longed to reach for his umbrella, but knew how the action would be interpreted. He was _Mycroft Holmes,_ and no matter what Sherlock might say, he did not need a security blanket.

“Now then, where were we?” Magnussen asked. He sat down on the sofa next to him, close enough that their legs were flush against each other. 

“My brother,” Mycroft paused at the hint of weakness in his own voice. It was barely discernable, but he could tell that Magnussen had detected it. He appeared amused.

“My brother,” Mycroft continued more firmly, molding himself back into the shape of a bored bureaucrat. He allowed only one man to get the better of his emotions and it wasn’t the one sitting beside him.

“You will leave him alone. By extension, this means you will also remove yourself from the affairs of the Watsons and any other person to which my brother attaches himself. I want all information pertaining to Sherlock Holmes and his associates handed over to me.”

“And what will you give me in return for such a high demand?” As he spoke, Magnussen’s hand found its way onto Mycroft’s left leg and proceeded to leisurely rub against his inner thigh. 

“What you’ve always wanted, but were unable to acquire.”

“You think very highly of yourself. What makes you think I want you that much?” Magnussen asked, not bothering to stop his highly inappropriate touching. 

The conversation was a mere formality. They both knew the depths to which Mycroft would sink in order to protect Sherlock. Magnussen had always wanted to be the one take him to those depths, ever since he’d realized that Mycroft wasn’t going to bow to his whims like everyone else. Couldn’t be _forced_ to bow. Mycroft actively thwarting several of his plans over their association had only added full to the fire, turning a mere annoyance into a real threat to Magnussen's power. 

Magnussen had been waiting _years_ to find his pressure point and then Sherlock’s pressure point in turn, his brother being a rather hard individual to use in any sort of blackmail plan. Now that he had both, Mycroft could only imagine the sort of things he had planned for him.

“Should I dignify that with an answer?” Mycroft asked, pointedly looking down at the hand on his thigh. “I never mentioned that I was on the table. Bringing it up during negotiations is rather telling of you,” he continued. 

Magnussen leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “And _this,_ ” he shifted to rub directly in between Mycroft’s legs, gliding his hand over the cloth covering Mycroft’s cock, “is rather telling of _you.”_

Mycroft’s face shuttered, but he continued to express no complaints. 

“Why don’t we cease with the verbal games, Mycroft? As much as I enjoy the foreplay,” he ran a tongue along Mycroft’s neck, “we’ll have time enough for that later. We both know you’re not here to trade state secrets. Doing so would put your brother in even greater danger in the long run. And you didn’t even bring your laptop.”

“I don’t need it. I have an excellent memory.”

“Hmm.” Magnussen reached underneath Mycroft’s right knee and moved his leg so that it was no longer crossed over the other one. He proceeded to massage him through his trousers with renewed enthusiasm. It took all of Mycroft’s willpower not to shudder in revulsion. 

“Such self-control,” Magnussen murmured. He went to give Mycroft a kiss on the bottom of his jaw, and Mycroft moved so that he was just out of reach. He clenched a hand over the man’s wrist, halting his ministrations. 

“ _Mycroft,_ ” Magnussen said, his tone disapproving. As if Mycroft was a disobedient child. No. A disobedient _pet._

“I want to see the information you’ve collected.”

“You will. _Afterwards._ I’ll even let you see the vaults. I know you’ve been dying to get inside for years.”

They locked eyes, a silent argument erupting between them. After some minutes had passed, Mycroft finally looked away. Reluctantly, he released Magnussen’s wrist. It was as much as he had expected.

“What do you want me to do?” 

Magnussen ran a fingertip from his cheek all the way down to his elbow. 

“You don’t like to be touched, do you, Mycroft?” he asked, ignoring Mycroft once again, “Particularly by me. We’ll have to change that, I’m afraid. As much as I’m enjoying your…discomfort, I can’t have you flinching every time I reach for you. It might make people question our relationship when I unveil you as my lover.”

Mycroft tensed. “I beg your pardon?”

“I did think about keeping this between us, but I’ve grown rather fond of the idea of your esteemed colleagues knowing I’m enjoying your attentions, and you mine. Knowing our reputations, _Ice Man,_ I wonder what sort of conclusions they might draw.”

Mycroft didn’t answer.

“Mycroft Holmes, the very embodiment of the British government, second in power only to me, under my thumb.” He pressed his thumb against Mycroft’s jawline, forcing his face up and away, before removing it. Mycroft allowed his head to drop back to its original position.

“I imagine they’ll run for the hills, don’t you think? The two titans, working together for the first time. The two men who know something about everyone, merging so that we know _everything_ about everyone. Or, will know something about everyone. I’m personally looking forward to making use of your renowned prediction skills. That’s what you do, isn’t it? In your ‘minor position.’ Being able to look at someone and know their life story isn’t as impressive as your brother makes it out to be. Good intelligence sources can do just the same. But being able to look at that person’s life story and predict that tomorrow they’re going to become a terrorist. Now that’s truly impressive. Of course, it made my acquiring you rather difficult, but I suppose the prize will be worth the fight.”

“How very flattering of you,” Mycroft replied dryly.

Magnussen chuckled. He reached out with his tongue and ran it along the outer shell of Mycroft’s ear. 

“Don’t be upset,” he said, purposefully misinterpreting Mycroft’s lack of enthusiasm, “I don’t just want you for your mind. I’m also looking forward to the amount of sex we’ll be having on a regular basis.”

“Stand up,” Magnussen whispered into his ear, after spending a moment thoroughly wetting it.

Mycroft did as he was commanded. 

His body suddenly felt infinitely heavier, and he was surprised he didn’t sink through the floor his limbs had gained so much weight. The idea of keeping his back to the other man was tempting, but pointless. He turned around to face Magnussen.

“Remove your clothing.”

Mycroft resisted the urge to look around at the large, see-through room as his unwilling hands started to obey. Piece by piece, button by button, his clothing was meticulously removed and carefully folded onto the table beside him until finally he stood bare before the man he currently despised more than anyone else in the entire world. He took hold of his umbrella and placed it by his other possessions.

He made no move to cover himself, and instead stood there calmly with open hands at his sides while Magnussen’s eyes raked over him centimeter by centimeter. Mycroft’s face was the perfect picture of boredom. _Sherlock_ Holmes had once arrived at Buckingham Palace in nothing but a bloody sheet. _Mycroft_ Holmes could do better. 

“Mmmm,” Magnussen let out as he rubbed a finger across his lips. Rising from the sofa, he slowly circled around Mycroft a few times, running his fingertip along Mycroft’s skin as he went. Coming to rest behind him, he reached forward and squeezed Mycroft’s buttocks. “Very nice. You’re not fat at all.”

Mycroft bristled at the man’s casual use of such an intimate taunt. 

Magnussen released him and instead started to tap each of the freckles on Mycroft’s shoulders, as if counting them.

Mycroft didn’t shy away, but it was a near thing. He’d always been rather self-conscious about the lentigines, a weakness he was ashamed to admit, and had always taken special care to keep the specks of pigmentation hidden. Magnussen’s casual touching of them took him even further out of his comfort zone, something he didn’t think possible after he’d just stripped bare in the middle of a room with transparent walls.

As if sensing the vulnerability, Magnussen went from poking the small dots to running his tongue along Mycroft’s shoulders, leaving a wet trail in his wake. Mycroft could feel the pink appendage drawing short, connected lines from left to right in what could only be a purposeful way. Concentrating on the strokes, Mycroft was able to understand the words “FUCKTOY” and “COCKSLUT.” Despite his situation, Mycroft couldn’t resist rolling his eyes at the childishness. 

“A tad vulgar, don’t you think?” he asked.

“Vulgar? Not at all. I assure you, Mycroft, we haven’t even begun _vulgar_ yet.”

Magnussen dipped to put his mouth to the curve between Mycroft’s neck and shoulder. The government official winced as he felt teeth sink in. Intense sucking quickly followed behind. It was as if a leech had become attached to his skin. The thought was enough to finally make him shudder and he scolded himself for the momentary loss of physical control.

The mouth released its harsh grip, leaving behind a small, painful area. He’d been bitten too hard for it to be even remotely pleasurable, even if he’d been with better company. Mycroft idly wondered in the back of his mind if he was bleeding, and if so, if the teeth marks would leave scars. He’d have to look into that later.

Almost casually, Magnussen reached around his body, both hands sliding down until they reached their desired destination. Mycroft’s face flushed in fury as he began to play with his cock. Literally _play._ Magnussen gently wiggled his cock around, making it “dance” for a moment before taking it firmly in both hands and starting to draw in the air. 

After a few minutes of what Mycroft recognized to be a game of noughts and crosses, his willpower finally crumpled to the ground, unable to take the continued strain.

“Will you bloody well get on with it,” he snapped. 

He immediately regretted it, a wave of shame and self-reprimand rushing through him. He never lost it like that in front of those he considered “unsafe.” Never allowed his emotions to coat his tone of voice. Never used such _common_ language. 

Magnussen tsked for the second time that night. “Have you already forgotten who is in charge, Mycroft? And here I thought you were a genius.” He tugged on Mycroft's cock, moving the foreskin back and forth. Mycroft could feel the beginnings of arousal, his cock starting to pay attention to the other's ministrations against his will.

Mycroft closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He exhaled slowly. 

He’d overestimated his ability to stay above what was happening to his body, without actively exiting into his Mind Palace. He needed to end this before he did something he _truly_ regretted, whether it be emotional or physical.

In addition, the probability that Sherlock had awoken within the past ten minutes was exceedingly high and he would have realized what had transpired almost immediately. Sherlock would proceed to engage in a tantrum the likes of which few had ever seen before. He might attempt to go behind Anthea's back and persuade one of Mycroft's own men into mounting a "rescue mission." He might even succeed. His brother was a skilled liar when he put forth the effort.

Even without Sherlock's interference, Mycroft estimated he had twenty-five minutes before people began to wonder why the man who ran the British government from the sidelines wasn't answering his phone. He had approximately ten minutes after that before Anthea would be forced to concede that something was amiss else risk giving the game away.

Mycroft had to move things along unless he wanted a number of people to see him in a most compromising position.

He took another deep breath. He reminded himself why he was doing this.

“No, I haven’t forgotten,” Mycroft said, choosing his words carefully. A misstep could send everything crashing down around his ears. Magnussen would love nothing more than to see him on his knees just as his most trusted subordinates showed up at the _transparent_ house. 

“Forgive me. I don’t know what came over me. Please…Please continue.” Mycroft allowed a certain amount of brokenness to enter his voice, just enough but not too much. The depressing part was that the emotion itself wasn’t false.

There was a pause, and then Mycroft could practically feel the smirk. 

“The ice finally cracks. Let’s see if we can’t get it to shatter completely, shall we?”

Magnussen put his hands on his hips and pushed him forwards towards the sofa until his knees rested on the cushions. Arranging Mycroft like a doll, the vile man placed Mycroft's hands on the back of the piece of furniture and adjusted his legs until they were widely parted and his backside was hanging off into the air just slightly. He felt terribly exposed.

He heard Magnussen move away and for one blindingly terrifying moment he thought he’d been wrong and that wasn’t possible, Sherlock himself had noted on more than one occasion that he was never wrong, and wasn’t that a ridiculous conclusion because he was wrong all the time, especially when it came to Sherlock, who was eventually going to arrive to see him sitting there naked with his arse ready to be fucked if he couldn’t convince Magnussen to _actually_ fu-

Mycroft hissed as a slick finger began to tease at his hole, grounding him back into reality. Not that reality was much better. He realized just as Magnussen pushed the first finger into him that this had not been a good idea. He’d allowed himself to be confused as to exactly how much of his Ice Man persona was real and how much was merely rumor. 

He pressed his face against the couch to muffle the sound as a second digit and then a third were quickly pushed into him, Magnussen not caring much for his comfort. He reminded himself that this had not been his wisest choice to date, but it had been his _only_ choice in regards to Magnussen. This was the opening for which he’d been waiting. 

He _had_ to protect Sherlock. This _would_ protect Sherlock. 

It was that thought that strengthened his resolve and allowed him to relax his body as much as he was able to in his current situation. Magnussen was going to be rough with him; he cared nothing for his partners’ pleasure or even lack of pain. He was a blackmailer who enjoyed owning people. Said people’s comfort was not a high priority. Mycroft had known this going in. He’d deduced it many years ago, around the same time he’d predicted what would happen between them if Magnussen ever pinpointed a weakness for both Holmes brothers. He’d not been wrong. Everything was just as he’d foreseen.

There was the sound of a zipper and then a grunt of pain escaped past his lips when the other man finally pushed his cock into him. He was much too tight for it to be anything other than uncomfortable. He was hardly a virgin, but neither was a Casanova. With Magnussen’s less-than-adequate preparations, there was a high probability he’d end up bleeding if he wasn’t already. 

Magnussen's hands descended upon his hips and proceeded to squeeze as he started to thrust with a force that made Mycroft see stars. 

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

Mycroft allowed his mind to drift, wandering along the outside of his Mind Palace, peaking into the windows but not passing through the door, least he be tempted to remain inside. The American President's birthday was next month. He needed to arrange a gift. Perhaps he'd put an end to some annoying gang war in one of the more violent states. Or maybe he'd just present him with a nice bottle of scotch. Mycroft couldn't decide which the man would consider more useful. 

Mycroft moved on to the next item on his agenda, and then the next items following. Magnussen was, unfortunately, not an overexcited teenager that came after a handful of quick thrusts. 

He’d made it to the twenty-seventh item when Magnuseen tensed and the grip on Mycroft's hips tightened. Mycroft prepared himself, though that didn't stop the revulsion when the hot liquid entered his passage. He felt a tad queasy.

Magnussen leaned to rest against his back, not bothering to remove himself just yet. Mycroft could feel the buttons of his shirt pressing into his skin. The other man's hands drifted up from his hips, his fingertips gliding along his sides until they reached his nipples. Mycroft winced as they were rubbed between thumb and index and then painfully twisted and pulled away from his body until they stood unwillingly erect.

A hand came up to his mouth and forced itself past his lips in order to rub against his gums. It retreated back down to toy with his nipples while the other repeated the exercise. The combination of wetness and cool air made the buds peak to the point pain.

"I think I'll have these pierced," Magnussen said, somewhat out of breath still. He grabbed hold of Mycroft’s cock and balls. "And these."

Running his thumb across the head of Mycroft's now completely flaccid cock, Magnussen said, almost idly, "I think next time I'll make you come all over yourself. Perhaps in your nice suit."

"There will not be a next time unless you take me to the vaults. I want all information regarding my brother and his acquaintances removed today."

"Still so demanding. I see we'll need more training."

"Magnussen-"

The man pulled Mycroft’s face back and to the side, sloppily kissing him on the mouth. His tongue demanded entrance and Mycroft reluctantly allowed it in, knowing he had no real choice in the matter. The kiss seemed to go on forever, Magnussen running the appendage over each of his teeth and swirling it around Mycroft's tongue. 

Just when he was about to run out of air, Magnussen pulled away. He ran his tongue over Mycroft’s lips.

“Forgive me, I simply couldn’t resist. You were saying something?”

Lowering his eyes in submission, Mycroft asked softly, “May I please see the vaults?”

Not answering, Magnussen kissed him again. They made a wet smacking sound as they parted.

"I suppose you've earned a treat," Magnussen said, patting his head. “But first we have to make sure that you don’t leak on the carpet. It’s terribly expensive.”

Taking Mycroft's hand into his own, Magnussen pulled out of him, but quickly placed Mycroft’s fingertip at his entrance in substitute. Mycroft realized what the plan was immediately. He watched, resigned, as Magnussen walked out of the room and came back within minutes with a large butt plug. The fact that he had a collection of sex toys just off of the living room spoke volumes.

Mycroft clenched his jaw when his hand was taken away and instead he felt the push of rubber against his entrance. No lubrication this time. Mycroft looked at the red tinging the top of his finger. He supposed there wasn't much point by now. 

Mycroft forced himself not to cry out as the toy was mercilessly forced into his already abused hole. The pain made him clench involuntarily, which led to even more pain. It was a vicious cycle, which the unpleasant mixture already residing within him did nothing to help. The plug was just too big - at least twice as wide as Magnussen himself, though thankfully not as long. His sphincter cried out in protest. 

Finally it was in and the piece of rubber did a _lovely_ job of keeping the repugnant juices from leaking down his open thighs. Mycroft took a steadying breath. 

He jolted forward as Magnussen smacked the end of the plug.

"It seems to be secure," he said, voice far too amused. Mycroft wasn't normally fond of violence, but at that moment he wished an unspeakable death upon the other man. He wanted it to last _centuries._

"Come, Mycroft," he said, gripping his upper arm and pulling him off the sofa and onto the floor. "Time to see the Appledore vaults.”

Mycroft made to rise, but was pushed back down via a hand on his shoulder. He flushed in humiliation as he realized he was meant to crawl. Magnussen led him out of the room and Mycroft was eternally grateful that their destination lay just through the modern archway, which he could see was devoid of witnesses. The idea of having to pass one of Magnussen’s bodyguards in his current state was utterly mortifying. 

Standing before the doors, Magnussen turned to smile at him.

"Be my guest.” 

Mycroft stood slowly. He opened the doors to reveal a white room, empty save a single chair in the middle. He stared.

“I was under the impression you were taking me to the vaults.”

“I have. Here is the entrance.”

Mycroft looked around. There was nothing special about the room. No secret passages. No hidden pieces of technology. It was completely ordinary. It was rather more boring than he’d imagined. He’d been expecting some tasteful art pieces to line the walls, at the very least.

"Nothing to say? Come now, Mycroft, you're an extremely intelligent man. I'm certain you can figure it out."

"It's a thinking room, if you will. You come here to access the vaults...located in your mind."

"Very good! Less than thirty seconds. Tell me, how long do you think it would have taken little brother to figure it out? Or would I have eventually had to explain it to him?"

Mycroft didn't respond. 

They both knew the answer to that question. It was why Mycroft had drugged Sherlock back at their parents’ house so he couldn’t interfere. Why he’d come alone and allowed one of the most offensive human beings on the face of the earth to place his hands upon him. Why he’d allowed another man to put his penis inside his arse for a reason other than mutual pleasure. Why he’d _crawled_ like a _dog_ on the bloody _floor._

Sherlock would have figured it out eventually, but it would have taken time. Far too much time. He wouldn’t have been able to keep up, _hadn’t_ been able to keep up so far, and he’d have been in terrible danger as a result. Magnussen was on a far higher level than his brother. 

He was on Mycroft’s.

Magnussen ran a finger across his shoulders. This time Mycroft didn't try to repress the shudder. There was no reason to anymore.

"I can see it now. Little brother and his little yapping dog, trying to wrap their little brains around it. I imagine at least one of them would make a fuss about there being no proof or some such nonsense. Their faces would crumple as I explained everything. I was rather looking forward to that, but I think I prefer this more. I don't have to tell you anything, do I, Mycroft? You already understand because you think just like me. Appledore does not exist, it never has. This room is nothing more than a prop. You know something about props, don’t you Mycroft?”

“My laptop,” Mycroft admitted. 

“Yes, the special computer that holds all of the government’s secrets. As if people like us would be so careless.” Magnussen chuckled, “You know, your brother was actually going to try to trade that to me? It’s empty, of course, but he doesn’t know that, does he? He would still be tried for attempted treason.”

He pressed a kiss to his neck and leaned to whisper in his ear, "And you would do anything to prevent that, wouldn’t you, Mycroft?”

Mycroft sighed. “Even if none of that had transpired, you still have information on the woman known as Mary Watson which would allow you to follow the line of people up to me.”

“I appreciate how similar our thought processes are, Mycroft. I'm looking forward to our future time together."

He brought his hands up to trifle with Mycroft’s nipples again.

“I really do like these,” he commented. “I think silver loops would look best. Then you can have a matching one for your cock. I’ll have to buy a leash to go with them, so I can lead you around properly.”

“May we return to the living room?” Mycroft asked wearily. “I need to retrieve my mobile. There are certain individuals that dislike it when I’m out of contact for too long.”

“Certainly.”

Mycroft was forced to crawl again, this time in front. He could feel the other man’s gaze on him from behind. It made his skin redden.

Mycroft stood on shaky legs when he reached his clothing. By now his knees were starting to ache, and he was hardly as young as he used to be, regardless. Middle age came to them all.

“Surely you are able to call your minders from down there?” Magnussen said, still behind him. Mycroft calculated him to be not more than half a meter away.

“I am,” Mycroft said. In one smooth motion, he grasped the handle of his umbrella, placed his finger upon the trigger, turned, and shot the other man in the chest. He made a mental note to give Q a hefty raise.

“It is, however, far easier to aim while on your feet.”

Magnussen had enough life left in him to stare at Mycroft in surprise. 

“I’ve come to find that encountering individuals who think too similarly to yourself is generally unpleasant. In that moment, you become highly predictable.”

Magnussen placed a hand upon the red spot blossoming on his chest in disbelief. Mycroft watched him fall to his knees. 

“I would like to thank you for inviting me to your lovely home, and allowing me to finally confirm my suspicions about the Appledore vaults. I’ve been awaiting this opportunity for many years.”

Mycroft watched as he finally toppled face-first into the carpet. He continued to stare as a pool of blood started to form. 

Forcing himself back into focus, he dropped the weapon and turned to start redressing himself. Though it shamed him to the deepest core of his being, he left the plug inside as he pulled on his pants and trousers. The instant it was removed, everything would leak down his legs and he had neither the time nor the inclination to search for something suitable to wipe himself off with. He had a handkerchief in his pocket, but he was hardly going to use a gift from Mummy for such a task. Just the thought bordered on vulgar. Besides, the blood and semen would prove useful in convincing others of what had transpired.

Impeccable once again, Mycroft placed himself in the chair and proceeded to wait. He longed to hold his trusted companion, but it just wouldn’t do to be found sitting there with the murder weapon his hands. It would send the wrong impression. Instead, he clasped them together in his lap. He hoped the shaking wasn’t terribly noticeable, as he was having considerable difficulty making it stop.

One of Magnussen’s men came into the room not long afterwards, the sound of approaching helicopters encouraging him to defy his employer’s wishes and return without being called.

“Sir-” he stopped, seeing the body. 

He glanced at Mycroft in surprise, and Mycroft could conclude from his expression that the surprise came more from the fact that _he_ had killed someone than that his employer was dead. Mycroft let that go without comment. He would be the first to admit that he hardly looked the part of a dragonslayer. 

As if remembering his training, the man moved to apprehend him. 

Mycroft spoke calmly, cutting him off before he could do something unfortunate.

“You know who I am, do you not?” Not waiting for an answer, he continued, “Then I assume you’ve realized by now what a difficult position you are in. The man who’s been protecting you from answering for your illicit rendezvous with underage girls has been killed, in self-defense I might add, by the man who currently controls the very agents that you were just coming to warn about. Do you really think attacking me is your wisest choice?”

The man opened his mouth to respond.

“Don’t,” Mycroft commanded, voice cold, “Turn around and walk away. Take your colleagues with you.”

The man all but fled the room. Mycroft would have his people pick him up later, as well as the rapist and the serial strangler he’d encountered earlier. He didn’t normally waste resources on the everyday criminals he deduced, but he felt he’d make an exception for Magnussen’s former employees. 

His gaze drifted back to the body as he waited for his employees. This was not the first time he’d killed someone, not even the first time he’d done it with his own hands, despite what Sherlock might say in regards to his laziness. It was the first time he’d felt such personal relief in doing so, however.

“Target located in upper living room. I repeat, target located. Moving to extract.”

Several men poured into the room, their guns raised as they searched the area for threats. One stopped to check Magnussen’s pulse, before shaking his head at the others.

Throughout this, Mycroft sat calmly in the chair, his eyes still lingering on Magnussen’s body until someone moved to block his view. 

“Sir, we need you to relocate to the helicopters,” Bryant said. He’d been with Mycroft for a number of years.

He reached forward to take hold of his arm, and though Mycroft could tell that he merely meant to help guide him to safety, he found himself snapping at the other man all the same.

“Do not touch me. I am perfectly capable of walking on my own.” Mycroft’s tone brooked no argument.

Bryant backed away quickly. Mycroft stood carefully, hyper-aware of the plug still inside him. 

“Sir, do you require medical attention?”

“Yes, but not immediately. Take me to my assistant,” Mycroft ordered before Bryant could inquire as to the nature of his injuries. 

As they made their way through the compound, Mycroft was ever thankful that the men and women had more important things to look at than him. He was finding it difficult to keep his composure. He kept imagining that they could see his shameful secret. He wondered if he’d made the right choice in keeping it in.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, pushing his way through several black-clad men to stand before his brother. He sounded strangled and he looked _horrified._ Mycroft felt much the same.

“Sherlock,” he replied evenly, only just keeping hold of his act of bored nonchalance as he brushed past the man for whom he’d just sacrificed many restful nights.

Sherlock would see through it, _did_ see through it, if the concern radiating from his brother’s very being was anything to go by. On any other occasion, Mycroft would find the brotherly sentiment secretly pleasing, though he’d be loath to admit it aloud. At the moment, it was just slightly less desirable than discovering that Magnussen had arisen from the dead while his back was turned and it had all been for naught. Sherlock was never meant to see him in such a state. 

Though he’d predicted Sherlock’s arrival as a possibility, it didn’t stop Mycroft from vowing to find whoever had allowed his brother to come on this mission and _ruining_ them.

“Mycroft-”

“I’m currently busy at the moment, brother mine,” Mycroft interrupted tersely, neither stopping nor slowing down. The sooner he was away from Sherlock, the sooner he could lick his wounds in peace.

“You require medical attention,” Sherlock said, switching tactics. 

He sounded farther away than before and Mycroft dared a glance behind. Bryant had apparently read his employer’s distress and was currently doing an admirable job of blocking Sherlock’s path without actually touching him. They all knew Mycroft’s rules regarding Sherlock Holmes and touching. 

He added Bryant’s name next to Q’s on the list of people who were getting a raise once he’d taken a scalding shower. Mycroft wondered if he should put his own name down.

“I’m aware,” Mycroft called over his shoulder as he finally made it to the helicopter, unwilling to turn and see the horror in Sherlock’s eyes once more.

Climbing in as gracefully as one with an anal plug shoved up one’s bleeding arse is able, that is, not very gracefully at all, Mycroft felt a surge of relief so strong, he momentarily lost his ability to breathe. Anthea graced him with a look not dissimilar to that of the one Sherlock had given him. 

“Sir?”

“Take me to our nearest medical facility,” he replied, only just pushing his emotions back. The hospital was closer, but Mycroft required discretion more than he required quick treatment. “Return Sherlock to my parents’ home. What is the location of Dr. Watson?”

“Still at the house, sir. I’m sorry, sir, I wasn’t aware your brother managed to convince Millington to allow him along until just now. I’d be happy to deal with him for you.”

Anthea was added to the list of people getting raises. 

“Yes, please do. Also, schedule a meeting with my colleagues.”

“Is that wise, sir? If you require medical attention; it might be best for you to rest a few days,” Anthea said. She gave him a hard look and asked silently what she couldn’t aloud while curious ears were still about. 

Mycroft returned her gaze and tilted his head slightly in affirmation. “I assure you, I’m not as damaged as you may think. My colleagues will demand answers, and it’s better to meet them on my own terms.” 

“Yes sir.” Anthea nodded towards the pilot to start the engine before dropping her gaze to her phone.

Mycroft looked out the window as they ascended, watching as Bryant argued with his brother and attempted to corral him into one of the nearby helicopters without resorting to physical force. It was too far away for him to lip-read, but Mycroft knew his brother’s mind well enough to make an educated guess that Sherlock was either demanding to be allowed into the crime scene or to follow Mycroft, possibly both. 

His little brother. Mycroft felt the hints of a smile on his lips, though it wasn’t quite strong enough to push itself through to full formation. It was unlikely to have been a happy smile even if it had.

& & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & &

It was two days later that saw a weary Mycroft entering his home after an unpleasant barrage of medical examinations and humiliating, though necessary, retellings of his time spent with the late Magnussen. He therefore very seriously considered walking right back out the door as he glanced around and observed the signs indicative of his brother's presence. 

"As much as I do enjoy our time together, brother mine, I'm afraid I'm not in the mood," Mycroft said to the empty entrance. 

"Yes, I imagine killing a man in cold blood and then framing him for rape in order to claim self-defense must be rather exhausting,” Sherlock replied, turning the corner and stepping into the light.

Mycroft sighed. 

He _was_ exhausted, but even more so, he was _pained._ His body ached, his mind was stretched to its limits, he was stressed beyond comprehension, and he felt a shame so strong he found himself dreaming of retiring to the countryside, never to be seen nor heard from again. 

So far, he’d managed to maintain his Ice Man persona to the satisfaction of everyone he’d encountered, and no one had been the wiser when it came to the emotions bubbling underneath. Now, standing in front of the man for whom he’d allowed himself to be sullied, he couldn’t continue the charade. Just for one night he wanted to remove all his masks. Just one night and then he’d be more than happy to play the part of the cold older brother who never allowed anything to affect him and wouldn’t even dream of putting himself in a demeaning position for a little brother that he saw as nothing more than a useful tool. Sherlock could tell him all about how very smart he was tomorrow. 

“Since you seem to have deduced it all by yourself, I assume you require nothing more than a captive audience in which to display your intellectual prowess. I’m certain you know where to find my assistant. Do try to be a little more discrete than usual; this is confidential information of the highest caliber. Good night, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock grabbed hold of his arm as he moved to walk around him. 

“Mycroft, I-” Sherlock cleared his throat. “I’m…sorry.” 

Mycroft could only blink stupidly while Sherlock looked away.

Gaze directed towards the wall, Sherlock continued, “I’ve had two days to consider the situation, and I’ve come to the conclusion that things would not have progressed the way they did if I’d heeded your advice and not pressed the issue. I apologize for putting you that position and hope that one day you might find it in yourself to forgive me.”

Mycroft didn’t know how to process such an unexpected display of sentiment, and so did what came naturally.

“It appears my little brother has finally become an adult. And to think it only took thirty-four years.”

“I’m being serious, Mycroft!” Sherlock snapped, jerking his hand away from Mycroft’s arm as if burned. 

“So am I,” Mycroft said, falling into their usual banter and finding himself unable to resist.

Sherlock’s face became ugly, and it was Mycroft’s turn to stop him from leaving.

“Sherlock.” 

Something in his voice must have belied his emotions, damn things, for his brother did stop. Sherlock pierced him with the full power of his gaze. Mycroft resisted the urge to lower his own.

“I assure you, there is nothing for me to forgive as I do not hold you responsible for what happened. I made a decision based entirely on the circumstances at hand. I realized there was little chance that I would receive another such opportunity and took the actions necessary to seize hold of it.”

“Then why didn’t you have me do it?” Sherlock asked with an audible challenge in his tone.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Mycroft lied.

“Don’t pretend to be stupid, Mycroft. It really doesn’t suit you. We both know what I’m talking about. You couldn’t just order Magnussen’s death, both because of what your colleagues might think of such a rogue action and the fear that you might possibly be wrong about the vault not existing, thus unleashing secrets posthumously that could send the world crashing down. You had to get someone into Appledore that could confirm the vault didn’t exist, without leaking to Magnussen what you believed. Yet, in the event of the vault’s actuality, you couldn’t risk whoever received access to the information stealing it for personal benefit. So, it had to be someone you trusted unconditionally. In addition, it had to be someone willing to remove the threat once you had what you needed, meaning you either needed someone to take the fall or someone willing, and able, to follow your own plan of self-defense. All of this is dependent on Magnussen inviting the individual into Appledore in the first place. I can’t imagine there have been too many people that have fulfilled all requirements over the years. It should have been Christmas and Hanukkah and all of those other ridiculous religious holidays combined when I fit the puzzle perfectly. Yet, it was you that went in. What I’m asking is _why didn’t you have me do it?_ ”

Sherlock was breathing hard by the end of his tirade and shaking with a barely restrained rage. 

Mycroft leaned back against the door with a sigh.

“You know why, Sherlock.”

“Yes, I do. While your attempt to absolve me of my guilt is touchingly sentimental, I ask that you don’t insult my intelligence by claiming I played no part in your decision, brother mine.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “What do I have to say to get you to leave?”

Sherlock stared at him wordlessly, clearly not having expected his brother to give in so easily. Honestly, Mycroft would have found it hard to believe as well if he’d not been considering the merits of ordering his security team to lock Sherlock in some undisclosed location until he was prepared to deal with him. 

Having come to some sort of silent decision, Sherlock surged forward and pulled Mycroft away from the door so that he could wrap his arms around him. Mycroft tensed at the unwanted physical connection. He reminded himself that Sherlock may be physically stronger, but his brother was hardly going to force his presence upon him if Mycroft pushed him away. He reminded himself that he _could_ push him away; this was not a game Mycroft was unwillingly being forced to play. Sherlock was not Magnussen. The thought allowed him to gradually relax into his brother’s hold. 

“Let me take care of you for once,” Sherlock whispered into his shoulder, grip never loosening. It was quickly becoming apparent Sherlock wasn’t about to release him in the near future.

Mycroft wondered if this was Sherlock’s guilt speaking. If so, it wasn’t terrible. If not, he worried about the future of their relationship. He knew how to handle a Sherlock that expressed his brotherly sentiment through obvious caring about as well as Sherlock knew how to handle a Mycroft expressing his by…well. 

“I can take care of myself,” Mycroft said, deciding it was a safe answer.

Sherlock snorted. Mycroft had to admit that he agreed. Evidence as of late did seem to prove otherwise.

Sherlock had the decency to look uncomfortable when he finally released him. It was the least he could do seeing as Mycroft hadn’t felt even a tenth this unsettled when his brother had suggested he find himself some sort of companion so he wasn’t “lonely” anymore. 

“Well then, I suppose I should be going. You need your rest,” Sherlock said. 

“Most definitely.”

They awkwardly slid past each other as Sherlock headed for the door and Mycroft his bedroom. 

“Before I go,” Sherlock said, turning back around. 

Mycroft wondered if he would suffer permanent brain damage if he smacked his face into the nearby wall until he lost consciousness. 

“It was the glasses, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, Sherlock,” Mycroft answered, putting as much long-suffering into his voice as humanly possible. “I was able to observe them in detail one afternoon and came to the conclusion that there was nothing special about the spectacles. This led me to deduce that he was remembering, not reading, which in turn eventually led me to conclude that the Appledore vaults did not actually exist.”

“Right. Thought so. Goodnight, Mycroft.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

& & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & & &

Mycroft started up at the ceiling. Nothing but complete darkness greeted him, yet he couldn’t find the strength to close his eyes, lest he fall asleep again and awaken in a cold sweat once more. 

It was foolish. Magnussen had only been able to harm him due to his own actions. A hint of dread crawled up his spine. Actions which he had taken to protect Sherlock. Actions which he would take again, if the need arose. And again. And again. And again.

_Let me take care of you for once._

Oh, brother dear, if only it were that easy. 

Mycroft could never allow Sherlock to take such obligations upon himself. The results would be disastrous. Sherlock just wasn’t strong enough. The past two years had proven that, if nothing else. 

Sherlock might be able to hide the symptoms from the goldfish, might be able to lie to himself about his mental distress, but Mycroft had been able to see the signs from the moment he’d laid eyes on him in Serbia. He’d permitted Sherlock’s fight with the assumption that his brother could take the blows. He’d been wrong and would never forgive himself for it. Now, the mere thought of Sherlock being harmed in an effort to save him was enough to nauseate. He couldn’t risk losing his brother. He _couldn’t._

_Your loss would break my heart._

Sleep eventually took him against his will, those thoughts still plaguing his mind. He dreamt of hands on his skin and tongues gliding along places they should never have dared to trespass. The people around him were faceless, yet he could make out smiles. He was unable to speak. Sherlock, still just a boy, ran to him and wrapped his small arms about his waist. He begged his big brother to protect him. 

So Mycroft did.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this turned out to have a lot more plot & feels than I was planning, considering the two prompts basically boiled down to kinky PWPs. I'd be happy to hear what you think of it! Esp. the ending since I wasn't originally planning on about the last third of the fic & instead had an entirely different twist in mind when I started. Hopefully it's not choppy or confusing with me randomly changing directions. Give me a head's up if you think it is. Otherwise tell me how wonderful you think it is! (I joke, I joke.)
> 
> As a side note to fellow authors - how do you get stupid AO3 to post things nicely? I go from Microsoft Word to here, but had to post it has HTML since RTF was giving it strange spacing & then had to add in my own italics & such. It was _tedious_. Surely there's another way to make text look nice?


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